just a page in my diary
by lydiamartins
Summary: She walks through the crowd with another boy on her arms, always moving on -— or, the story of a girl and a boy who couldn't let go / massiederrick, massiecam, clairecam


**sum: **She walks through the crowd with another boy on her arms, always moving on -— or, the story of a girl and a boy who couldn't let go / massiederrick, massiecam

**notes | **i write too much clique ffn

**just a page in my diary**  
_gone away are the golden days_

_summer in the hamptons -— 2009;_

Once upon a time, they were just two people;

Two individual entities, wandering on opposing sides of glassy floors, white beams crashing upon rosy red lips, shots of wine spilling across piles of hay and grass, nothing more than a typical upper east side summer at the Hampton's; but they were nothing more than mere children during those few days of innocence and innocence only lasts for so long;

It all starts with the beginning of a perfect summer — it was supposed to be a perfect summer, one of splendeur and filled with magic moments; There's a light breeze in the air, smelling of false freedom and social discontent, masked by scents of Chanel perfumes and ever so masculine colognes and air fresheners. Clicks of heels parade themselves through the center, a queen flanked by her princesses and ladies in waiting, fake smile plastered forevermore onto her pale face, insecurities buried underneath.

Confidence shoots through the center of her body, and a grimace is seen as the queen shoots a venomous look towards a blonde lady in waiting, who arrives later, and the younger girl stops the movements of her polka dot Keds, moving seven and a half seconds later, three steps behind the other four.

They're called the pretty committee, mostly known as Queen Massie and her little minions, or at least that's the way it's going to be for a while, until the beginning of a new era. Something that perhaps, will never happen, but it's the way that this world has been made. The five of them have summer plans, and the fifth, Claire Lyons, trails along, unsteadily, still regaining her confidence from a recent power struggle within the group, which had obviously failed.

"So, boys for the summer?" Alicia unwaveringly is always the first to bring up the topic — nobody else has the guts to do so, especially after the boyfast had just ended a few weeks past, but this was Alicia Rivera; she didn't fear anything. The five of them make a stop underneath the typical tree, all eyes drifting apart as the rest of the students climb into limosuines and convertibles, silk headbands thrown off into the back seat, screaming their lungs out as though summer will last forever.

Massie tilts her head, almost as if she's looking at her best friend in a new light, in admiration. Then, she launches into a full speed monologue, "Chris Plovert seems funny; Dune Baxter, hot lifeguard fling, and no, Alicia, nobody cares about Skye. Maybe for one of you guys, Kemp Hurley?" The rest of them look at each other blankly before bursting into laughter — Claire laughs a second out of tune, but being out of place is more evident than ever, and she steps back, wishing that she had never wished to be in the Pretty Committee in the first place. And, she finishes, "DerrickHarrington." The name is said in a blur. "Cam Fisher?"

The words are said almost shyly, and Claire can't help but think that maybe this bitchy queen actually has a heart after all; of course, covered with layers of snobby retorts, rehearsed of course, and sprays of perfume to mask insecurities; then, she remembers, "What about the party, Mass? You could approach him then. After all, aren't you the hostess?"

And, Massie smiles at Claire like she's brilliant, and agrees; Claire lives for these few moments of acceptance, because they're worth it. The party goes as planned, of course, like any other significant Upper East Side event.

All of the socialites are surrounded by paparazzi, and part of the pretty committee ends up on page six of the New York Times, though the paparazzi, of course, has their own limits between the yellow and black striped lines; police surround the penthouse, ignoring the underage drinking and other illegal activities of some sort, and throughout the smells of tobacco and insulated mugs that perhaps don't exactly hold coffee, Claire doesn't understand the fun about these events;

Of course, everything's to be done to make sure that the Queen has her own perfect evening, but Claire abandons the other minions about five minutes after the party actually begins, instead conversing with some of the other party guests who don't seem to be complete bitches — then again, Claire's always been a horrible judge of character. It's already thirty minutes into the dance floor, when the spotlight shines on her, and she flinches from the light.

This world, full of its royalties and everlasting dreams — living on the Upper East Side, it's like something from Fitzgerald or Thoreau, dreamable, though eventually unattainable, because as hard as Claire tries, she'll never truly be one of them. The lights beam down like crystallines, and she notices her reflection in the chandeliers; her blond tangles of hair, woven together with flowers that chain her like thorns, instead.

Glittering moonlight suddenly floods the room, and before she knows it, Claire's walking up to the center of the dance floor, with a complete stranger who smells remarkably like Cam Fisher, but she brushes the thoughts out of her head. They carry on an easy enough conversation, and Claire's convinced that perhaps this person, it's somebody from the outside looking in, somebody that understands her;

So, when they quickly brush lips before the masquerade ball is complete, Claire doesn't pull back; then, the masks are taken off, and she runs. She can't like her best friend's — her queen's newest boytoy of the summer; it just can't be done, and everything's going to be horrible, she just knows it.

.

Summer at the Hampton's isn't exactly something that Claire would think of as perfect, because at the end, it really isn't; Summer at the Hampton's are blurred; nobody really remembers what happened, except the fact that something had happened, and then there was a gala, and NOTHING'S WORTH IT ANYMORE BECAUSE EVERYBODY HATES CLAIRE; but everybody loves Massie, just like usual. Even Derrick still loves her.

With all its lies, smiles plastered permanently forming a mask etched forevermore to the flesh, the drudgery of losing hope because somebody is always going to be better, and broken dreams, it's not a beautiful world in a safe, little bubble. It's just not. Maybe, it never has been.

And, Cam can't help but think that Claire was warmer and nicer and just understood him more than Massie ever could — would. But he listens to the requests of his father, and stays silent; but some summer nights, he remembers a golden girl.

But gone away are the golden days, sinking into the void.

.

_present day -— senior year _

Massie's perched upon a silver chair in the center of a lecture hall, legs daintilly crossed as lace stockings turn out to be a wodnerful match with navy blue Mary Janes, white socks a transparent shade, paired with something of Saks classic collecetion quality - everything about her is classic and delicate, she likes to think. She fingers the pleated layers of an antique cream - never white - skirt, brushing past mid0thigh level. A silver logo implants itself in an upper corner, creating a transition to a blue lace top, perfectly one-quarter sleeved;

Her headband is ruby red, coincidentally the same shed as the red rose petals on her nails, each one more bright than the next. Her skin is a tanned shade, no matter how much pearly white it had been before the beginning of a summer at the Hampton's ( but summer was over, and she would have to move on ); skin fraying on the edges framed by a more luscious shade of chestnut curls. Her contacts display a dark brown color - amber's just a little too different, don't you think? - and a purple set of chandelier earrings hang off her lobes, precariously dangling as she tilts her head from side to side, before closing the compact with q cuik snap and pursing her cinnamon lips.

She attempts glaring out the window, an act in vain due to her location of the lecture hall, because she deserves better than this. Sometimes, when she models herself after a fictional character, like today, her life is supposed to be just as perfect as theirs. A burst of 80's tunes emits itself from an iPhone across the room; the guilty individual, a meek blonde blushes like a cherry red tomato, and quickly excuses herself, a walk of shame, perhaps. Fingers intertwine with one another, a tight squeeze, short and nervewrecking, of reassurance, and Massie can't help but inwardly squeal, because she's holding hands with _him._

Cam Fisher, Cam Fisher, Cam Fisher; the prince to her princess in one of those effortlessly happily ever after fairytales. She notices Derrick Harrington staring at hte back of her head, and ignores everything - Massie couldn't help but wish that she was holding hands with him; memories of a failed eighth grade gala intervene, and Derrick leaves her fairytale.

He had his change, and then absolutely blew it; she knew that the majority of the moments between them had been . . . nice, to say the least, but she couldn't deal with him anymore, not when she had a prince, not ever again. Eager to make Derrick regret everything even more - of course, not to make him jealous; that would imply that she still had feelings for him, something that was completely false, right? - Massie quickly tightens her grip around Cam's hand; Cam who is always oblivious smiles back at her.

Derrick stops staring, his head rolling towards the ceiling, before he raises his left hand with a smug expression, "Mrs. Carrow? I have a complaint to make." He drawls out the words, slowly but surely; Mrs. Carrow narrows her beady, old-person eyes, a frightening shade of electric blue, and looks towards Derrick in a menacing manner. "According to the school handbook, on page fifty nine, excessive public display of affecton is prohibited." He directly turns his head towards the two individuals in front of him, who immediately let go of their hands, the girl rolling her eyes as if she knew that he would always have to ointerfere. "I just don't think that this is the best sort of environment for learning, don't you think Mrs. Carrow?"

Mrs. Carrow, in response, narrows her eyes, and motions for Massie and Cameron to separate; the class bell rings five minutes later, and Derrick's the last one out the door, smug at his success. Massie immediately corners Derrick once in one of the larger corridors of Briarwood Octavian Academy ( some sort of stupid co-ed school, apparently ) and slaps him - hard. "What the hell was that for, Harrington?"

"Nothing," he replies, simply. I didn't do anything - I just voiced my opinion like I was taught to do so. Is that really such a bad thing to do?" He tilts his head slowly, and Massie wants to wipe the smirk of his face with another slap but immediately puts on a golden girl expression of false nicetiies as Headmistress Burns approaches, and nods at the two of them.

Massie takes a deep breath, "Derrick. It's over. Can't you let me move on?"

"I am letting you move on," he replies, his eyes not exactly matching from what comes out of his mouth; Massie's known Derrick for too long, too well to know when he's lying, and sometimes, she wishes that she didn't know about those factors. She shouldn't be able to be in this conversation, not now; she was supposed to avoid him until graduation, which was only two months away; something highly unrealistic, now thinking back on it.

"Well, try a little harder, won't you?" Massie asks, not paying the slightest bit of attention as soon as Cam rounds the corner, offering his arm; the golden couple walks through the crowd, and she doesn't look back once - that's what makes them golden - though Derrick's staring at her long after the crowd has disappeared, a frozen expression of regret plastered upon his facial features.

.

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**notes |** hey, guys! today was really stressful so i wrote this on the bus, (:


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